


Toucha Toucha Toucha Touch Me

by Mere_Mortifer



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: (right after tbh), Adult Eddie Kaspbrak, Adult Richie Tozier, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Bossy Eddie Kaspbrak, Bottom Eddie Kaspbrak, Dirty Talk, Eddie is extremely horny in this one guys, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Hickeys, Homeless Richie Tozier, Homelessness, Human/Monster Romance, Humor, I want that 40-year-old man obliterated, M/M, Naked Cuddling, POV Eddie Kaspbrak, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Richie Tozier Cries During Sex, Richie Tozier Has a Big Dick, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Smut, To be clear: Richie is completely human when they have sex, Top Richie Tozier, Translation Available, Unsafe Sex, Werewolf Richie Tozier, hints of: - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24079894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mere_Mortifer/pseuds/Mere_Mortifer
Summary: “Who the fuck are you?” Eddie exclaims before he can stop himself, and the man turns to face him with a shriek. "I have a dog, you know? He’s like half wolf or something, if you don’t get the fuck out my apartment I’ll tell him to attack!”The man, incredibly, laughs again, this time less hysterical and more plainly awkward. “Yeah, uh, about that…”Or: Eddie brings a stray dog home. Turns out, it's a werewolf.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 154
Kudos: 882
Collections: Monster Reddie





	Toucha Toucha Toucha Touch Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Прикоснись ко мне (Toucha Toucha Toucha Touch Me)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25402630) by [Fil_l](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fil_l/pseuds/Fil_l)



> Russian translation available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9656147)! A big thank you to [topeatit](https://twitter.com/SWAg_167447?s=09) :D
> 
> Listen, I have a long fic that I should be working on, but time is meaningless. Werewolf Richie porn. 
> 
> A big thank you to [rea_of_sunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rea_of_sunshine/pseuds/rea_of_sunshine/works) for beta-reading, and for putting up with me in general <3
> 
> A few notes before we start: Richie is completely human when he has sex with Eddie; also, there are references to him being both malnurished and homeless, and while that's not the focus of the fic, it's mentioned a few times. And last thing, there's a moment where Eddie thinks Richie is offering sex to him only as a payment for helping him out, but Richie makes it clear that he actually, just. Really wants to dick him down.  
> That's all! Enjoy :)

Eddie is not great with people. 

His many idiosyncrasies and tendency to analyze (overthink) everything makes him great at his job, yes, but when it comes to building meaningful relationships his...whole personality, really, is nothing but a hindrance.  
So, yeah—Eddie doesn’t have many friends. The Wall Street bros that he has to interact with at work seem to find him funny, sure, but he’s also heard them accuse women who have the same attitude as Eddie of being “massive bitches”: he doesn’t count being in their good graces as an achievement. 

That is to say, he can sympathize with the dog he’s been observing for the better part of an hour.

It’s a big dog, and Eddie might not be an expert in dog breeds, but if he has to guess he’d say that there are a lot of wolf genes at work.  
He read once that if you’re asking yourself whether or not you’re looking at a wolf, it means that the answer is no: real wolves are much bigger than people usually account for, so if you’re doubting yourself, it’s just a dog. And Eddie identified the big lump of black fur shivering on the sidewalk as such, no matter how scary its size seemed at first. 

Eddie had just gotten into his car when he saw it (him? her?) on the other side of the street, huddled up next to a bench. For a moment Eddie’s eyes slid over it without distinguishing its dark fur from the shadows it was hiding in—but then, a flash of bright blue eyes in the light of the streetlamps, the waggle of a tail when a man passed by, and there it was. A dog. 

The dog is, for lack of a better word, trying to socialize. Hence why Eddie feels some sort of deep emotional connection to it ( _him_ , it’s probably a him, female dogs are rarely that big, right?).  
The dog’s attempts at making friends are as unsuccessful as Eddie’s usually are, if for very different reasons. For example, people are rarely intimidated by Eddie’s size to the point of hurring away when he tries to approach them; nor does Eddie have a tendency to loudly bark and scare the shit out of anyone around him.  
Really, he’s rooting for the poor dog to find a nice and warm home for tonight, but he doesn’t hold much hope for him. 

Eddie watches a little girl, no more than thirteen, crouch down next to him and pet his big snout, and he thinks _oh, finally,_ a delighted smile blossoming on his face to mirror the little girl’s. Then her dad rushes up to her and gently tugs her away like he’s scared the dog is going to bite her hand off, the fucking idiot, _can’t you see he just wants to play?_

“Fuck,” Eddie mutters to himself, and slaps a hand on the wheel. He comes to a very serious realization: if he wants the dog to get somewhere safe instead of spending the night in the frigid winter air, Eddie has to bring him home. _Eddie_ , not a random girl with an idiot, heartless parent—as usual, if he wants something done right, he’ll have to do it himself. 

He gets out of the car and tightens the scarf around his neck. The dog, who looks positively miserable to see the little girl disappear around the street’s corner, looks curiously in Eddie’s direction when he closes the car door shut. One of his ears flops down with the tilt of his head. 

Eddie is going to find him the coolest fucking collar money can buy.

Before he brings the dog to the best-reviewed, non-kill shelter in the tri-state area, that is. Obviously. 

As he crosses the street, Eddie remembers the rule about not holding eye contact with dogs when you approach them, in case they take it as a challenge, and by the time he starts second guessing himself if that was actually about horses, and then wondering if it’s a real rule to begin with, he’s already standing in front of the animal.  
“Uh,” he says, feeling awkward now that he’s here. “Hello.”  
The dog sits up, and waggles his tail almost furiously. His tongue lolls out of his mouth as he stares at Eddie with bright blue eyes, and Eddie gets an eyeful of his many sharp teeth.  
He crouches down and extends a hand for the dog to sniff before he tries to pet him—this rule, Eddie’s fairly sure, _does_ apply to dogs.  
A soft snout brushes against Eddie’s fingers, and then it’s the dog himself that bumps his head on Eddie’s open palm to beg for a scratch behind his ears. Eddie chuckles and complies. “Good boy, good boy. You don’t have an owner, do you?”  
The lack of collar and the state of his fur—dirty and matted, Eddie is already itching to wash his hand—speaks for itself.  
“Well,” he says with a sigh, “I can’t leave you here now, can I? Will you bite me if I try to get you into my car?”  
The dog barks, and slaps the sidewalk’s concrete with his tail some more. For a moment Eddie entertains the thought that he looks excited about Eddie’s offer to bring him home, then he remembers that dogs don’t speak English _._ _  
_ If Eddie starts personifying him, it’s the end—hell, the fact that he’s using human pronouns is bad enough. At this rate, Eddie will end up _adopting_ him.

“Okay, let’s go then.” He stands up and pats a hand on his thigh to invite the dog along. There’s a thoughtful moment in which the dog studies him, as if to gauge Eddie’s true intentions, but he must find something trustworthy in...in Eddie’s scent, or whatever metric of judgment dogs use, because he raises up on all fours and follows Eddie back to his car. 

The dog’s size is even more impressive when he’s not curled around himself to keep warm. Like this, trotting amiably side to side with Eddie, he’s as tall as Eddie’s hips. If, by any chance, Eddie pisses him off and he decides to attack him, Eddie will die the stupidest good Samaritan’s death.  
Thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be much to fear: he opens the backseat door of his car, and with some cajoling and a plea not to drool over the upholstery, the dog jumps in and takes over all the available space—which happens to be just enough for him to comfortably sprawl with one of those heartfelt sighs only dogs seem able to produce.  
Eddie rounds the car and sits behind the wheel. “If you need to pee, hold it in. Also, if you do, you’re a dumbass because you’ve been outside this whole time, so don’t even try it! Capiche?”

The dog barks happily. Eddie drives them home. 

☽☆•☆☾ 

“Alright, now hear me out,” Eddie says. In the twenty minutes it took him to get to his apartment complex, Eddie started speaking to the dog like he would any other person—except with less irritation than usual, considering the dog never tried to interrupt him. “I don’t know if I can bring pets in here, so I need you to stay silent. No barking.”  
The dog (no, he won’t _name_ him, because you don’t name dogs you don’t intend to keep, that’s just asking for heartbreak) bumps his wet nose on Eddie’s hand, and doesn’t make a sound.  
“You know, you’re smarter than some of my coworkers,” Eddie says, and gives him a complimentary scratch behind the one ear that insists on flopping down. 

The way to Eddie’s door on the third floor goes by without accident, but it’s only when they’re both safely inside that Eddie sighs a breath of relief. The last thing he wanted was to get busted smuggling a big, lumbering pile of fur into his apartment by one of his nosy neighbors.  
He makes a beeline for the bathroom, the dog hot on his heels, and washes his hands up to the elbows two times before he’s satisfied with the level of cleanliness. The dog looks and sniffs curiously at his surroundings, but his unnervingly blue eyes always go back to observing Eddie.  
“I didn’t know dogs could have eyes like that,” he tells him as he dries his hands. The dog blinks at him, as if to say, _I have no idea what you’re talking about_ —or maybe he’s flaunting his baby blues, who knows. Certainly not fucking _Eddie_ , who’s never owned a pet in his life if you don’t count the goldish his mom bought for him when he was eight that died after just a couple of days. God, Eddie cried so much for that stupid fish—he was inconsolable for a week, it was pathetic. 

“Please don’t die on me,” he begs the dog. “I already need so much fucking therapy as it is.”

In order to avoid accidentally killing the poor animal, Eddie whisks his phone out of the back pocket of his slacks and googles _how to take care of a rescue dog._ _  
_ Most articles prove to be useless for his current situation: they suggest checking for microchips, or contacting your local animal control agency; which is very useful advice he’s going to follow tomorrow, but doesn't help him in the _now,_ when he has a starving, shivering dog he took home on a whim.

Oh, wait. He doesn’t need help to figure out the first step, actually.  
“Food,” he exclaims, and the dog stops trying to dig his snout in the bathroom bin to put his full attention on Eddie. _Yes, please_ the gentle whine he lets out seems to say.  
Eddie takes the short trip to his kitchen, and he hears the _click-clack_ of the dog’s nails following him there. “Alright, so I obviously have no dog food,” he explains as he searches for something appropriate in his fridge, “but I do have...chicken? Dogs can eat chicken, right?”  
Eddie yelps when he feels something force his knees further open, and when he looks down he finds the dog between his legs trying to spy the contents of the fridge. Eddie holds up the chicken breast fillets, and the dog tries to jump to steal them from him, which in turn almost makes Eddie fall on his ass because this animal is _way too big_ for the restricted space of a New York apartment kitchen.  
“Dude, come on!” he reprimands him when he’s got his footing back. “I almost cracked my skull open on the counter, what is wrong with you?”

Eddie must have raised his voice more than he thought, because the dog tucks his tail between his legs and goes to hide in the corner of the room furthest away from Eddie. Well, _hide_ is a strong word: he curls around himself to look smaller, but he’s hardly any less noticeable.  
Eddie immediately feels terrible about yelling. After all, if he was as skinny as this poor dog is under all that untamed fur, he too would be incredibly excited at the prospect of eating some chicken.  
“No, hey, come on,” he says, softening his voice as much as he can. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Eddie makes his way closer to the dog, walking slowly so as not to make him feel threatened, but the animal stays still, and simply looks at him with watery blue eyes. They bore into Eddie’s when he crouches down and extends a hand to gently pet his head. “Were you abused or something? I didn’t think—I mean, you’re so big, I assumed I needed to be careful in case you got aggressive, not...like _this_. You don’t need to be scared of me.” The dog whines low in his throat, and raises a paw only to dump it heavily on Eddie’s knee.

“Oh, hell no,” Eddie says, still gently, and lowers the paw back to the ground. “These pants are Armani, get your filthy paws off them. Now, will you let me cook those fillets for both of us? I haven’t had dinner yet, and I don’t want you to get dog salmonella or whatever the fuck. It’s antibiotics-free organic chicken, none of that kibble bullshit. You know that they add STPP in kibble? You can find that shit in detergents, can you believe it—yeah, I know, it _is_ fucking disgusting!”

☽☆•☆☾

After dinner (which goes surprisingly well, if you don’t count the fact that the dog scarfed down his portion in 0.5 seconds flat and spent the rest of the time trying to guilt trip Eddie into giving him some more from his own plate), Eddie changes out of his work clothes and puts on a pair of dark sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt. The dog stares at him the whole time with the metronome of his own wagging tail as the only background noise. 

Eddie knows that what he intends to do next is at best unnecessary, and at worst a suicide mission. He intends to bring the dog to a shelter first thing in the morning—he already sent an email to his boss informing her he’s using one of his sick days tomorrow to take care of ‘family business’—so it shouldn’t matter whether or not he’s clean. One more night indoors certainly can’t worsen the state of his fur, right? 

“Unfortunately for both of us,” he tells the dog, both of them crowded in Eddie’s bathroom, “I have issues. Like, a _lot_ of them.” He fishes a pair of latex gloves from the cabinet drawer, and puts them on under the dog’s watchful eyes—who, somehow, manages to express a deep aurea of suspicion despite the lack of the necessary facial muscles. “My therapist says they stem from my mother’s upbringing, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that I physically cannot go to bed knowing there’s a filthy dog roaming my house. So we need to make you clean.”  
Eddie knows that the dog can’t understand him—which is why he’s so freely spilling facts about himself not even his friends know about...then again, Eddie doesn’t have friends, he has _acquaintances_ —but the way he growls low in his throat at the words _make you clean_ can’t be a coincidence. Maybe he saw the bottle of unscented, hypoallergenic shampoo Eddie’s holding in his gloved hand and recognized it from a past in which he had people who gave him baths. 

If he ever had people who gave enough of a fuck about him to give him baths. 

“Oh, don’t give me that shit,” Eddie says, frowning. He leans forward to scratch under the dog’s chin, and then to gently tug him closer to the shower. “Stop _gggrr-_ ing at me, you’ll feel better after a bath.”  
It takes some more minutes of gentle pets and admonitions, but eventually the dog gets in the shower and lets Eddie work warm water through his matted fur. Not long after, Eddie figures out that if he wants to do this properly he needs to stop worrying about getting his clothes wet—so he strips again, and when he’s just in boxers he steps in the shower and closes the glass door behind him. 

Eddie’s requirements when picking a new apartment after his divorce—almost three years ago, now—were 1) easy to clean floors, and 2) no bath, but a big, spacious shower.  
At the time, the real estate agent joked about how Eddie wanted ‘enough space for guests’, wink wink, nudge nudge, and Eddie laughed along but he knew he wouldn’t invite people to shower with him anytime soon—certainly he didn’t expect that the first time he would, it’d be a rescue dog who keeps trying to bite the stream of water.

Said dog gets strangely complacent after Eddie takes his clothes off. Perhaps he was making things difficult because he didn’t like the idea of being lathered in shampoo while Eddie stayed safe and dry outside the shower.  
Whatever it is about Eddie washing him only in boxers and latex gloves that calms him down, it works like a charm: Eddie watches with growing satisfaction dirt and grime go down the drain, and the dog’s fur loses most of its knots. 

“So this is what wet dog smells like,” he says with a grimace when he’s cleaned off all the shampoo. “Gross, dude.”  
The dog only barks and bumps his head on Eddie’s thigh, making him almost slip down and hit his head for the second time tonight. He, unfortunately, also licks affectionately at Eddie’s knee, which makes Eddie’s irritation die down to be replaced by a recalcitrant warm feeling.  
He guides the dog out of the shower and grabs the biggest towel he owns from the cabinet under the sink. “You better not start liking it here,” he mutters as he rubs the dog’s fur dry. “I can’t keep you. I work all day, and—and I can’t have something to take care of. I worry too much, that’s practically the only thing I know how to do. I’d ruin your life, buddy.”  
He looks into those bright blue eyes and tries not to find disappointment in them. _You’re going to leave me, too?_

“Fuck,” Eddie groans, and looks up at the ceiling. “I’m projecting over a fucking dog.”

A wet tongue licks up his cheek, and Eddie yelps and immediately scrumbles to wash his face. “You do that again, I’m getting you neutered!” he threatens, but when he turns around he finds the dog belly up on the floor over the abandoned towel, head tilted to look at Eddie, and Eddie _really_ doesn’t have it in him to be mad.

Later, he even lets the dog sleep on the bed with him.  
The official excuse he gives himself is that he has no way to force a 100 pounds dog to sleep on the floor if he doesn’t want to. The truth is that he doesn’t mind having something warm curled around his legs—and he’ll have to say goodbye to him tomorrow, _forgive him_ if he’s feeling a bit emotional.

☽☆•☆☾

“ _Fuck_ , shit, why’s this guy so fucking small…” 

The hurried whisper wakes Eddie up. For a moment he thinks he’s still dreaming, then he registers the sounds of someone moving in his room, and his heart drops to his stomach. 

What the fuck is he supposed to do now? There’s a _man_ in his _room_ , and the second he figures out Eddie is awake, he’ll fucking shoot him or something. Another flare of panic: could the burglar have a gun? Is the situation that dire? Oh God, Eddie’s about to fucking die, and he hasn’t even told Jack-from-HR to go fuck himself like he’s wanted to since he had the misfortune of meeting the guy. 

Wow, even his bucket list is depressing. 

He comes to the conclusion that even if all he has to his advantage is the element of surprise, he still needs to see what his opponent looks like or if has, indeed, _a fucking gun,_ so he takes the risk of opening one eye. 

The sight of a man is expected, what _isn’t_ —and this throws Eddie off more than a .44 Magnum could—is that he's busy pulling a pair of Eddie’s shorts over his otherwise naked ass.  
“What the fuck?” he exclaims before he can stop himself, and the man turns to face him with a shriek.  
Eddie stumbles out of bed and grasps the first thing he finds to use as a weapon. It ends up being his bedside lamp. “What the _fuck_?” he repeats, because the situation has not gotten any less confusing now that he’s vertical.  
The man pushes his hands through his hair, and laughs with a clear note of hysteria in his voice—which has no right to be there, because _he_ ’s the one sneaking in other people’s apartment and...stealing their clothes? What? “I’m sorry, fuck, I didn’t mean to wake you! Come on, put that down.”  
He gestures at the lamp, and Eddie grips it tighter. “No, fuck you! I’m not putting my only weapon down, you creep!”  
“Listen, I’m—”  
“I don’t wanna hear it! I have a dog, you know? He’s like half wolf or something, if you don’t get the fuck out my apartment I’ll tell him to attack!”

The man, incredibly, laughs again, this time less hysterical and more plainly awkward. “Yeah, uh, about that…”  
Eddie feels cold down to his spine. “Did you. Hurt my dog.” 

If he finds out this asshole did something to the dog, he’s liable to kill him with his bare hands, he won’t even need this stupid fucking Ikea lamp to get the job done.

As Eddie psychologically prepares himself to strangle a man to death and finds he’s got enough pent-up rage to complete the job, the stranger raises his hands in surrender and looks imploringly at Eddie. “You said you wouldn’t keep him.”  
“What are you talking about?”  
“The dog,” the other adds. “You said last night that you wouldn’t keep him.”  
Eddie sputters, so confused he actually lowers down the makeshift weapon. “How do you know that? Have you been _spying_ on me?”  
The man shakes his head, and dares a step forward. He’s all sharp angles and dark shadows, pale skin, the intense blue of his eyes the only real splash of color. “I swear, I haven’t. Uh, my name is Richie, nice to officially meet you.”  
“None of the things you say make any sense,” Eddie groans, still scared, still worried for the dog. He can feel a headache coming up.

“Sorry, I don’t have a speech prepared for this,” Richie says. “When someone is kind enough to take me home, I usually sneak out before they wake up. Best to avoid the awkward morning-afters."

"I'm gonna ask you one more time before I kick you in the throat," Eddie says, deceptively calm. "Who. The fuck. Are you?"

Richie grins, and waggles his eyebrows. "Aw, you wound me, you really don’t recognize me? You took me to your place, cooked me dinner—you even called me a _good boy_. Not necessarily in that order, though."

Eddie blinks at him. "Are you trying to convince me you're the dog I brought here last night? Are you on _drugs_?"

"Well, don't I look at least a little bit familiar?" Richie asks, and opens his arms wide as if to show off his body. Eddie, who has at some point decided to play along until he can find his phone and call the police, takes the opportunity to study the stranger better. 

He's tall. Apart from his paleness it’s the first, most glaring detail, and Eddie's noticed it already ‘cause it would be impossible not to. Richie has long legs and wide shoulders, and big hands to complete the set. He is also worryingly, unhealthily skinny—that's the body of someone who's skipped one too many meals. 

Something must show on Eddie's face, because Richie chuckles and pokes at his ribs. "Ah, don't worry about it, it looks worse than it is. I'm plenty strong, trust me."

Eddie raises an eyebrow, skeptical. "No, you’re malnourished," he comments. 

Richie smiles wider. "What's your name?"

The non sequitur leaves him speechless for a moment. "Eddie," he says in the end, throwing all caution to the wind. This man, this Richie, he _does_ look familiar. Those eyes...the implication that he's the same dog that fell asleep on his bed last night is _insane_ , sure, but he’s never seen eyes like that on anyone else. Eddie is, for now, more curious than concerned.

" _Eddie_ ," Richie repeats on a whisper. "I kept hoping you would mention your name last night, but you never did. Oh, and I appreciate you didn't give me some embarrassing nickname either—that's _my_ thing, I hate it when they steal it from me."

Eddie frowns and takes the few steps that separate him from Richie. Up close, his eyes are even brighter, and for a moment he forgets what he wanted to say. "Listen," he buys himself time, " _listen_. I'm willing to entertain this absurd idea that you can turn into a dog _only_ if you give me some proof. You have three seconds before I knee you in the dick and call 911." 

"I can't turn into a dog," Richie states, looking down at Eddie through unfairly long lashes. Then _something_ happens to his face—the hairline creeps lower, his nose widens, and his teeth are long and sharp when he grins and says, voice no more than a growl, "I can turn into a _wolf_."

Eddie’s eyes go wide, and he stumbles back until his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he collapses on the mattress. “Holy _fuck_ , Jesus Christ—”  
“Well, a fairly small one,” Richie continues, seemingly unperturbed by whatever the fuck his face is doing, _faces shouldn’t be able to do that oh my fucking god?_ “Believe it or not, I’m considered kind of tiny in my community.”  
Eddie lets out a sound that he didn’t know he could physically produce. “There’s a community? Like a _werewolf_ community?”  
Richie’s face morphs back to normal—actually, now that Eddie’s paying attention to the fine details, some features remain remarkably dog-like. When he smiles, his canines poke at his lips, sharper than a normal human’s; and his ears, hiding between wild curls of black hair, are they _pointy_? 

Richie tilts his head, teasing. “That’s what you decided to focus on, Eds?”  
“Don’t call me Eds,” he spits out without thought, crossing his arms.  
Richie just laughs, an obnoxious cackle that somehow goes very well with who he seems to be as a person—a.k.a., a nuisance. He’s weirdly comfortable for a man wearing only a pair of shorts that ride way too high on his long legs, and way too low over his hips. Half of Eddie’s brainpower is focused on keeping his eyes away from Richie’s crotch, where they seem hellbent on falling.  
“Your priorities are really out of whack, man,” Richie is saying. “You find out I’m a mythical creature, and the first thing you do is tell me off for a nickname.”

Eddie, who’s entire job revolves around prioritizing the right things, takes the comment personally. “I wouldn’t call werewolves mythical creatures,” he scoffs, and rolls his eyes. “You’re pretty mainstream nowadays, there’s a whole subgenre of romance focused on being, like, seduced by werewolves.”  
He regrets his phrasing the second he finishes the sentence. “Oh my, Eddie,” Richie purrs ( _wolves can’t purr!_ , he thinks hysterically), and stalks closer to the bed. “And would you happen to be a fan of said subgenre?”  
Eddie, even as he spreads his knees to make space for Richie, says, “I’ve always been Team Edward, actually.”

So close, with Richie standing between his open legs, Eddie has to look straight up to hold eye contact. He sees Richie blink twice in quick succession, and then break off in a delighted giggle. “How the fuck do you know about that? Aren’t you like forty?”  
“Thirty-eight,” Eddie corrects, as if in the great scheme of things it’s important to have a werewolf who’s flirting with him know his exact age—and can someone tell him what the _hell_ happened to his life in the past fifteen minutes?

“I think,” he adds, “that I will be freaking out about this at some point.”  
Richie hums, still infuriatingly aloof, and wraps his big warm hands around Eddie’s shoulders. “It’s cool. You can have your scheduled panic attack as I raid your pantry for breakfast.”

☽☆•☆☾ 

Eddie keeps waiting for the reality of the situation to hit him, but as he watches Richie moan over the absurd quantity of bacon he cooked for him, he feels remarkably calm. Well, he is worried about Richie’s cholesterol levels, but that’s just Eddie’s baseline layer of medical anxiety speaking.

“Gawd, ‘t’s so fuckin’ good,” Richie says with his mouth stuffed full. Fucking disgusting, not at all arousing, thank you very much. He swallows before speaking again. “I can’t eat this stuff when I’m turned, it’s like bad for dogs or something. It’s so much better than rats, though.”  
“ _Rats?_ Like disease-ridden, New York-sewer _rats_?”  
Richie gapes at him through another piece of fried bacon. “No, gourmet rats, imported from France. If I find out they _can’t_ control the body of a skinny Italian dude, I send them right back.”

Eddie massages his temples, and takes another generous sip from his coffee mug. “I’m not ready to deal with the effects that eating raw sewer rats could have on your body, it’s too early in the morning. This conversation never happened.”  
“The tail is the worst part.”  
“Eat your fucking bacon.”

Richie, blessedly, listens to him, and a few minutes go by in relative silence.  
Eddie tries to sneak glances at him over the rim of his mug ( _Boss Bitch_ , it reads, a gag gift from Sandra-the-intern, which Eddie hate-uses like he hate-follows the Kardashians on Instagram) when he thinks he won’t be caught. 

Richie accepted with minimal resistance Eddie’s request to _put some clothes on, for fuck’s sake,_ because 1) he can’t afford to burn the little fat he still has over his bones to keep warm, and 2) after Eddie lost the battle to himself and looked down at Richie’s crotch, it was a necessity to have Richie wrap himself in some more layers.  
If he closes his eyes, Eddie can still see the outline of his dick—it was just, _a lot_. There’s a reason Eddie has to wear compression underwear with those shorts when he goes jogging.  
So now Richie’s wide shoulders are making a valiant effort at stretching one of Eddie’s t-shirts, while a pair of sweatpants struggles to cover his ankles. 

What the fuck does this guy need to be so _big_ for, anyway? Is it like a werewolf thing?  
Richie will need to put on some pounds if he wants to stop looking like the human version of a Worm On A String, but there’s no denying that he can easily dwarf Eddie. There’s a definition in his arms’ muscles, and in the curve of his thighs, that speaks of hidden strength. He also gives the impression that his dinners consist of two cigarettes and a line of coke, but that’s not, like, a _bad_ look.  
Eddie’s performing some impressive mental gymnastics to convince himself he does _not_ want to climb him like a tree. 

“So,” he says in an attempt to distract himself, “is there a reason you moonlight as a stray dog at night?”  
Richie lets out a delighted _ah!_ and grins widely at Eddie. “ _Moonlight_ , nice. It might sound weird, but it’s easier to find a warm place to stay as a sad-looking dog rather than, well.” Richie leans back on the chair and does a vague gesture Eddie can’t hope to decipher. It could mean _I look like I might rob you for drug money,_ or _wow, this shirt is so small on my big fucking body, also on an unrelated note, would you like to lick my hip bones?_

Oh, fuck. Eddie is too old to be this horny. 

“You’re homeless?” Eddie blurts out, and immediately grimaces at his own lack of tact.  
Richie doesn’t seem to mind. “What gave it away?” he asks, a smile still lingering on his full lips. “The eating rats thing? Or the fact that you literally picked me up from the streets?”  
“You were a dog,” Eddie argues, because if he drops the annoyed façade he will start fussing over Richie’s health, and fucking...make him tomato soup and tuck him into bed, or something. God, he’s turning into his _mother_. “Dogs are not homeless—”

“Dogs are abandoned,” Richie finishes for him. His voice stays steady, tone light, but Eddie notices how his hand tightens around the fork he’s still holding.  
Eddie’s heart clenches painfully—he wishes he had anything good to say. He feels like an asshole; here in his expensive apartment, eating overpriced food, closet full of designer brands. “Your, uh, your community can’t help you?”  
Richie’s smile freezes on his gaunt face. “I don’t need their help, I get by. And I wouldn’t be welcomed, anyway—I’ve been told I’m ‘too much’.” He laughs, and this time it sounds genuine, like he’s trying to coax Eddie along. “Can you _believe_ it?”

Eddie decides to play along, and lets his lips curve on a smile of their own. Is this is even real life, anyway? Did an actual burglar enter his house and clock him on the head, and now Eddie is in a coma and hallucinating that he’s eating breakfast with a werewolf?  
Fuck it then, he can make jokes! He can flirt! “I don’t know what you mean,” he says, “I thought you were a very well behaved dog.”

Richie’s eyes glint. “Liar,” he stage-whispers, and passes a hand through his thick black hair, “you called me a filthy animal last night like three separate times.” And then he growls, playful, before dissolving into giggles—and God help him, but Eddie’s theory about a head trauma must have some truth to it, because he finds it so unbelievably hot. Even the stupid, childish giggling.  
He scoots over to the table to hide how his sweatpants are now too tight at the crotch. “Yeah, that’s why I gave you a fucking bath.”  
Richie hums, and leans over the table until Eddie can feel his hot breath on his chin. Once again Richie’s eyes, though half-lidden like he can’t be bothered to keep them all the way open, are of a blue so intense it sends shocks down Eddie’s spine. “Yeah, you did,” Richie murmurs, and the growl is faint in his voice but it’s _there_ , an enticing rumble Eddie wants to feel on his tongue, as he does those sharp canines that peek out whenever Richie speaks. “With your bougie hypoallergenic shampoo, stripped down to your boxers. How can I thank you?”

Eddie, who hasn’t had much practice flirting with his own ex-wife, let alone strange men that look at him like they want to eat him alive, feels the question _how can I thank you?_ rattle him down to his bones, and he panics.  
Is he having a heart attack? Is this how horny people feel all the damn time?

He stands up—springs to his feet, more like—and mechanically gathers the empty plates and cups and ignores the way his erection is trapped in the waistband of his pants. “No need to thank me,” he scoffs, brows furrowed so low over his eyes it’s giving him a headache. “I just like to keep things clean, don’t flatter yourself. If anything, it was selfish using shampoo for humans on you, I could have made you sick. Or lose your fur. I don’t know what could have happened. I’ve never had a dog.”  
He turns around and makes his way to the sink, if nothing else than to stop his rambling about dog shampoo. He’s about to wash the first dish, when he hears a chair scrape against the floor, and a moment later Richie’s pressed shoulder to thigh on Eddie’s back.   
The dish tumbles down in the sink. “I wouldn’t call any of what you did for me selfish,” Richie murmurs with his lips pressed over Eddie’s temple, and Eddie almost doesn’t hear him over his heart thundering furiously in his chest. _Can we have this, can we have this,_ every beat seems to ask. _Can we have this man, willing, eager, right here on the kitchen counter, in the bedroom, on the floor?_ _  
_ _On the floor?_ Eddie thinks, hysterical.  
_Yeah, on the fucking floor!_

Richie, oblivious to how Eddie is quickly losing his mind, keeps talking. “I was cold, Eddie, and hungry. You brought me home and took good care of me—let me eat what you ate, sleep on your bed.” His hands settle on Eddie’s hips, long fingers spread wide, and when he moves to turn him around, Eddie’s body follows the lead without waiting for his brain’s input on the matter.  
Richie’s unfairly tall: like this, chest to chest, with Eddie’s erection pressed mortifyingly on his hip, he has to lean down if he wants to nuzzle in Eddie’s hair. Which he does, with a relieved sigh, like he’d been thinking about sinking his nose there for a while.  
“Are you sniffing me?” Eddie asks. He also spreads his knees so Richie’s thigh can slot between them, pushed right over his aching cock—and fuck, how is Eddie already _this_ hard? They haven’t done _anything_ yet.  
“No,” Richie says, very obviously still sniffing Eddie’s hair. “Smells nice, like mint,” he adds with a sigh, and then, “I felt bad earlier, when I was trying to sneak out. I would have stayed with you, even only ever in my other form, you know? Not everyone is so _nice_ to me, Eds.”  
Eddie, incapable since the age of ten of taking a compliment, feels the need to argue. And grind against Richie’s thigh, but that’s not relevant. “Not _that_ nice. I yelled at you.”  
Richie huffs a laugh. His breathing is fast and shallow as he moves his head from Eddie’s hair, down until their noses are brushing together, only a thin ring of blue around his pupils. Eddie half expects his tongue to loll out of his mouth like a dog with its head stuck out of the car window—then he imagines curling his tongue around Richie’s, right there in the open, hot air between their lips, and the phantom feeling of it is so vivid his knees just about buckle under him.  
“You _barely_ yelled at me, come on,” Richie’s saying, “I acted all scared to test you, see if you would double down or apologize. And damn, Bambi eyes, you looked so guilty you made _me_ feel bad.”  
“I resent that nickname,” Eddie says, frowning up at him. “Also fuck you, of course I felt guilty! You literally looked like a kicked puppy, you asshole.”  
“Don’t start yelling at me again! I’m _sensitive._ ” He wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist, leans more fully into his body—Richie’s all sharp angles, but he is hot everywhere, burning up Eddie from his toes to the roots of his hair. “I take it back, you’re so mean. You’re so mean to me, and I wanna thank you anyway. Can I? Can I, Eddie?”

As if he could say no _now_. He nods, and then Richie’s lips are on his, seething hot like the rest of him. Eddie’s hands sink in his wild curls, there at the hairline and then down to the nape of his neck in a caress that makes Richie moan, wanton, right in Eddie’s mouth.  
Eddie opens up easily, far too worked up to drag this out any longer, and Richie immediately licks behind his teeth, and then kisses Eddie so hard it steals the air from his lungs.  
God, but the way Richie gathers him closer to his body, strong arms pushing and pulling as he pleases—all Eddie can do is hold tight on the wide line of his shoulders and pant open-mouthed into his lips. 

Richie’s hips drag back and forth against his, the hard line of his cock nestled between Eddie’s open thighs, and Eddie suddenly remembers he owns a very comfortable bed.  
“Wait, wait, Richie,” he tries to say, and it gets swallowed down Richie’s throat in another toe-curling kiss. “Just, stop,” he rushes to get out when he leans back. Despite what some feral part of Eddie’s brain believes, there’s no reason to do this over his kitchen sink—his mattress is _memory foam,_ for fuck’s sake.   
Richie, to his credit, does stop, but the look he gives Eddie is one of thinly-veiled, crushing embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he says, almost yelps, “I didn’t—I’m not going to do that again, I promise.”  
“No, what are you—”  
“You don’t have to touch me or anything,” Richie adds, like that was even remotely what Eddie was hinting at. “I just want to make _you_ feel good.” He licks a wide strip on his palm, and a second later his hand is in Eddie’s pants, in Eddie’s _boxers_ , gripping him tightly from the get-go. He strokes him a few times trying to find a good rhythm, the rough skin of fingers just on the right, beautiful side of painful. “Is it because I’m too skinny?” he asks, and it might be that Eddie’s brain is too fogged with lust to process the English language, but the words make no sense to him.  
“You can say it, I won’t be offended,” Richie continues. “I know I’m not in the best of shapes, I, uh—haven’t eaten much lately, you know how it is.”

 _No, I really don’t_ , Eddie wants to say, but then Richie thumbs at the head of his cock, precum leaking out at ever upwards stroke, and the words fade into a moan.  
“It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” Richie adds, smiling even when there’s nothing funny about what he just said, what his mind jumped to after Eddie asked him to stop. 

“ _Richie_ ,” Eddie replies, with great effort because all he wants to do is melt into a puddle of his own pleasure. “What about the state I’m in right now made you believe I _don’t_ want you to fuck me? I’ve never been this turned on in my _life_.”  
The hand on his dick stills. “Really?”  
“Yes really, dumbass. I stopped you to ask if we could take this to the bedroom, where I have a bed. And lube.”  
Something suddenly dawns on Eddie: does Richie want to take this to the bedroom? Actually, does he want to be doing this _at all_?  
“I, mh.” Eddie clears his throat, tries to be tactful for once. “It’s okay if you don’t want to, though. I mean, you _seem_ into it, but you keep saying you’re doing it to thank me—and, really, there’s nothing to thank me for, Richie. Especially not like _this,_ you know?” He wraps a hand around Richie’s wrist, and gives him a wobbly smile. “I’d _like_ to take you to bed, but I’m not gonna kick you out if you say no. We can watch a movie, or—yeah, just, it’s up to you, is what I’m trying to say.”

Richie blinks at him, pupils still huge and wild in the electric blue of his eyes, and hums. “So, if I say I very much want to see you naked in the next five minutes, you’d be okay with it?”  
“Yes? Yes.”  
“Cool,” Richie comments, and just, fucking, picks Eddie up like he weighs _nothing_ and throws him over his shoulder.  
“What the fuck?” Eddie shrieks, mourning briefly the loss of Richie’s hand in his pants, but then he feels it squeeze the curve of his ass, so maybe the world isn’t that cruel of a place. “Richie! I can walk!”  
Richie steps back from the sink and makes his way out of the kitchen, still with Eddie’s entire weight draped over one shoulder. “Yeah, and _I_ can carry you.”  
“You’re just showing off.”  
From his upside down perspective, Eddie can see Richie’s bare feet cross the doorway to the bedroom, the light changing to the suffused tones of the sheer blue curtains. “Yeah, fucking duh?” Richie says, “I’m trying to _seduce_ you here. Is it working, are you feeling seduced?”

He asks the question as he drops Eddie on the still unmade bed, where his excellent mattress absorbs the force without making him bounce, and Eddie melts into it like his entire spine just liquefied. “Oh god,” he groans, torn between fisting his hands in Richie’s shirt to make him tumble down on top of him, or simply spreading his legs like...like the _harlot_ he is, apparently, Jesus fucking Christ. “You’re such a fucking _idiot_. Get your stupid clothes off.”  
Richie laughs, all sharp teeth and delight, and complies with Eddie’s request ( _order_ ) eagerly and with no class—the sweatpants get stuck around his ankles, and Eddie makes things much more difficult by holding Richie’s face close to his, and putting his tongue where it rightfully belongs: down a werewolf’s throat. How’s that for an item to cross off his bucket list?

“These are _your_ clothes,” Richie says between kisses, with Eddie licking the words right off his lips. “I’m just wearing ‘em.”  
“Yeah, that’s why they’re stupid,” Eddie rebuts, “off, off, off—” and then there are teeth on his jaw, his neck, as they both paw at each other to get rid of the last lingering fabric.  
Eddie can’t say he’s ever been a fan of hickeys, or getting marked up in general—even in the early days with Myra, when sex for him was novel enough that he could ignore how fundamentally _wrong_ it felt to do it with a woman, there was not near enough passion between them to make bruises over his neck seem _hot_. 

Oh, he’s been a fool.  
Now he gets it, he gets why when Eddie was in high school people either sported them proudly with a smirk (like _yeah, I got laid, what about it?_ ), or bought shameful tubes of concealer to cover them up, saying things like _if he does this again I’m gonna kill him_ , and then a week later there they were, in the exact same position.  
It feels so damn good, that’s why it made them all stupid and reckless—Eddie is having a _revelation_. 

Perhaps he is being a tad too dramatic.

“You smell so good,” Richie growls against Eddie’s neck, and grazes his sharp teeth from the soft skin behind his ear, down to his shoulder, where he takes a mouthful and _bites_

Or maybe not. 

_Oh my god yes again harder_ , Eddie thinks, and then moans a long string of unintelligible vowels.  
“Like mint,” Richie continues, the words pressed into Eddie’s skin. “Do you buy shampoo and bodywash of the same scent so the bottles look cool next to each other in the shower? Is that it?”  
His tongue touches the spot he just bit, already blooming red, and licks there hot and unhurried to soothe the sting. Between that, the burn of his stubble where he works his jaw, and the way their hips are rolling together, Eddie is positively _losing his mind._ He could come like this. 

He doesn’t want to come like this. “Finger me,” he says—commands, really—and ignores Richie’s correct assumption about his criteria for buying shower products.  
“Yeah,” Richie agrees with a dreamy sigh, “yeah, let’s do that.” He unwraps his hands from where he was trying to touch Eddie everywhere all at once—and mostly succeeding, or so it felt like to Eddie, every inch of skin left on fire under his fingertips—and raises up on his elbows.

His bright eyes rake up and down Eddie’s body, and Eddie thinks _what is he seeing?_ and _does he like it?_ _  
_ Eddie doesn’t think he’s ugly, but he’s never considered himself that sexy of a person either, what with his average height and average face and average life—but maybe, all twisted in Richie’s slender limbs, pressed in the mattress by his bigger frame, he can believe that he doesn’t look bad at all. That he looks _good_ , even. 

It’s gotta count for something, having on top of him a man (a stranger! a _werewolf_ !) like Richie, a man that says things like _I want to make you feel good_ and looks ready to follow through with the promise. Eddie bathed this man last night, clad only in white boxers that went practically transparent when wet, swearing like a sailor at the mess they were making—hell, without knowing he mentioned _his relationship with his mom_ to this man, and he still seems eager to fuck him. Holy shit, what a miracle. 

Eddie looks at Richie, at his sharp teeth and pointed ears, at his big rough hands and the dark hair on his chest and arms, looks even at those stupid fucking sideburns, _you look like you belong in a 70s cop show, asshole,_ and he wants. There’s saliva flooding his mouth, he wants him so bad; he feels weak in his limbs with it. 

He twists around until he can rummage through the drawer of his bedside table, and when he finds the bottle of lube he takes it and throws it at Richie’s chest. “C’mon,” Eddie urges, “get on with it.”  
“Fuckin’, _yessir_ , holy shit,” Richie breathes out, and fumbles with the tube until he gets it open. “I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good, baby, fuck,” he says as he squeezes an excessive amount of product over his fingers.  
He makes such a mess with it, _the dumbass_ , half of it goes dribbling uselessly over Eddie’s stomach—it’s cute, it’s _endearing_ , like a puppy jumping excitedly around a new toy, and all Eddie can do is fold his legs up as high as they can go and tug Richie down into a filthy kiss.  
“Do you even know,” he asks when he pulls back, “what the fuck you’re doing?”

Eddie would have been mortified if someone asked him that during sex. Richie just laughs and licks Eddie’s parted lips. His fingers travel down, slick with too much lube, and Eddie’s nerves strain so much to feel his touch that when it comes it’s like a burst of electricity down his spine. “Oh man, no promises,” Richie says, and then proceeds to forever ruin sex with anyone else for Eddie. 

It’s not—he didn’t think— _guh_ , just give him a minute here. Eddie didn’t account for Richie to get so wild, which of course he would, he’s part _wolf_.  
_That’s what’s happening right now_ , he reminds himself, _you’re having sex with a werewolf._ Not that he could forget again. 

Richie’s fingers are long and deft, and they open Eddie up skillfully, like he does this often, going around exchanging sexual favours for a warm bed and some food. And maybe he does, Eddie hasn’t asked, and at the delicious stretch of Richie’s fingers sliding in and out of his body he loses his entire train of thought and stops caring.  
Eddie settles deeper into his pillow and lets his eyes flutter shut, rocking back on Richie’s hand whenever he pulls out. His cock is leaking steadily onto his stomach, in the mess of smeared lube already there, and it’s only the knowledge that he will come immediately if he touches himself that keeps Eddie’s hands clasped in his sheets. 

Richie is breathing heavily above him, eyes trained down to where he’s fucking into Eddie with three fingers now—and the sounds of it would be mortifying if they weren’t so fucking hot, and Eddie arches his back, moans loud and shameless when Richie brushes against his prostate.  
It’s not a shock of pleasure, it’s a wave that builds, a series of _it can’t get any better than this_ that’s proved wrong with every touch.  
“Yeah, right there?” Richie asks. Eddie tries to nod, but Richie ducks down to lick his face like the damn animal that he is, what the fuck is wrong with him, before dipping his tongue back into Eddie’s panting mouth.  
He finds enough strength in his arms to raise his hands and sink them in Richie’s hair as they kiss and kiss and kiss. As they shift against each other, Eddie can feel the hard line of Richie’s cock brush on his inner thigh, and then the weight of it when their bodies slot just right, so they’re pressed together from collarbone to hip. 

Richie can’t really move his hand like this, and he seems so lost in sucking on Eddie’s tongue to notice that hello, _he’s dying over here_. The pressure of his stilled fingers is maddening, as is every groan and growl that make Richie’s chest rumble against Eddie’s.  
With some effort, Eddie breaks off the kiss. “Come on, I’m fucking ready, you’re torturing me.” He tugs at Richie’s hair just because he can, and he’s rewarded with the sight of bright blue eyes rolling back in pleasure.  
“Yeah, you _are_ ready,” Richie agrees with a smug grin. His hair is pointing in fifty different directions, all messed up from Eddie’s hands, and his canines poke at his bottom lip when he smiles. “You liked that, yeah? Felt like you could take my whole hand if I wanted to.”  
Eddie gasps, speechless, and ignores how his dick twitches and tries to get even harder. That’s—he didn’t think—”Shut the fuck up,” he snaps at Richie, eyebrows frowned, a furious heat in his face and neck.  
Richie just chuckles, looking thrilled at Eddie’s reaction, and smacks another wet kiss on Eddie’s cheek. “Maybe another day,” he murmurs, and wraps an arm around Eddie’s back before flipping him around with one fluid move. 

Eddie’s chest hits the mattress before he knows what’s happening. Then his brain catches up, and he realizes that was another proof that Richie can (and will, _oh god_ ) manhandle Eddie however he pleases. If he rubs his aching dick on his sheets now that he can, really, who can blame him?

Richie’s big hands still his hips, and then tug Eddie up on his knees with ease. Eddie’s consumed in that moment by the need to stuff his fingers back in his hole, still loose and open—or better yet, he craves to press back and feel Richie’s cock stretch him wider, fill him up to the brim.  
He doesn’t need to encourage Richie, though, because a moment later he is thigh to thigh with Eddie. “God, look at you,” he says, almost reverent. Richie rocks back and forth mindlessly, and every time the head of his dick catches on the rim, Eddie shudders some more and bites his lip not to beg. “You’re so damn pretty. You want me, Eds? Want me to fuck you? Tell me where you keep the condoms, baby.”  
Eddie shakes his head. Is he really about to say what he’s about to say? “We can, uh. Not use one, if that’s alright with you.”

A stunned moment of silence. Then Richie’s voice, light and teasing, fills the room: “We really don’t need it. We’re different species, so I can’t give or get anything from you.”  
“That’s so fucking gross,” Eddie moans, turned on beyond belief. “Really convenient for us, but don’t say it like _that_.”  
Why are they still talking, anyway? Can’t this man just put his dick inside him, _immediately_?  
Richie spreads Eddie’s cheeks wider and kneads at his ass. “Mhmh, you’re having interspecies sex right now. Does that do it for ya?”  
“Fuck you,” Eddie spits out.  
“You already are,” Richie says, and then he’s finally, _finally_ , pushing inside Eddie. 

He expected him to go slow. Richie’s been content to go at such a leisure pace until now, while Eddie squirmed and pushed back and bit his lips under him, but he bottoms out with one long stroke that leaves Eddie breathless.  
Fuck, _fuck_ , he’s never been this full in his life. Richie is big, which he already knew, but having the proof of it buried to the hilt inside him is a different story.  
He scrambles to get up on his elbows, but the drag of Richie pulling back inch after inch punches the air out of his lungs, and he collapses on the bed, face in his pillow and ass up, cradled in Richie’s big hands as he fucks back in again and again.  
“God, fuck, you feel amazing,” Richie says from behind him, voice lost in a growl, “do you want more?”  
Eddie might be drooling a little. “Yeah, yeah. Do it, ruin me, I don’t care.”

Richie shifts on the bed, and a moment later his hands leave Eddie’s body and plant themselves on the mattress—Eddie, face half buried in the sheets, can see the line of his tensed forearm bearing Richie’s weight.  
He has to bite on the fabric not to moan when Richie starts moving again, the change in angle dragging the head of his cock over Eddie’s prostate at every thrust. On one hand he’s embarrassed at letting a stranger see him like this—no matter how sweet Richie seems, no matter how he’s connected faster and more easily with him than any of the coworkers he’s known for years—on the other, God knows he _can’t_ stop himself from loving the feeling of a big, strong man over and inside him.  
He arches his back as best as he can, and takes the punishing pace of Richie’s hips. 

“Fu-uh-ck, Richie, so close,” he stutters.  
Richie collapses lower over him, and sinks one hand in Eddie’s hair. He doesn’t tug, but Eddie raises his head anyway, twists around in search of a kiss—he finds Richie already waiting for him, face flushes and sweaty, eyes so blue they look electric.  
“Yeah? Good, that’s good,” he mumbles nonsensically, and licks at Eddie’s slack mouth before dipping his tongue in. The kiss is sloppy, too wet, too much teeth, and Eddie likes it so much he can’t breathe when it breaks off. “You’re so hot, what the fuck,” Richie says, which, _the feeling is mutual_ , but doesn’t explain why he’s taking his perfect cock out of Eddie instead of fucking him so hard the neighbors file a noise complaint. 

“Where the hell are you going?” he asks, trying for furious and landing somewhere near whiny. God, he’s like, _dick-drunk_ , it’s pathetic.  
Richie just chuckles, and smacks a kiss on his cheek. “Calm down, cowboy, I’m not going anywhere.” He wraps an arm around Eddie’s middle, and does that thing again where he manhandles him around as he pleases and makes Eddie’s attraction for him somehow skyrocket even higher. 

He lands on his back. Richie above him is a sight to behold, so naturally he closes his eyes because he’s not equipped to deal with this. With any of this.  
“I just wanna see you when you come,” Richie explains, sweet as anything, and simultaneously both nuzzles his nose in Eddie’s hair and slips back inside him. 

_Mom, mom, I found him in the streets_ , Eddie thinks hysterically, _can we keep him?_

Richie starts moving again, no build-up, just the stretch of his cock when he pulls back and fucks back in, hard, over and over, in Eddie’s willing body.  
Eddie spreads his legs further, makes more space for Richie’s wide frame between them, and Richie wraps his hands around his calves and pushes them up.  
“ _Shit_ ,” Eddie says with a breathless whisper. He’s practically bent in half, and has no way to push back or even _move_ , he can only take it, take it, take it. He makes the mistake of looking down and almost comes on the spot at the sight of his dick, red and leaking precum over his stomach, and Richie’s hips driving into him.  
Eddie lets out soft _ah, ah, ahs_ whenever he’s pushed up the mattress by Richie’s thrusts. He dissolves into loud moans when Richie uses his weight to press him deeper into the mattress, and leans down to suck and bite on Eddie’s neck and chest. 

He feels used. There’s no other way to put it—he feels like a little plaything Richie can bend however he wants, he feels powerless and _slutty_. God, yeah, that’s the word for it, he’s being fucked like a slut. Who knew! Who knew he would love it this much! 

Maybe one of werewolves’ secret powers is reading minds, because Richie stops sucking a bruise on Eddie’s collarbone long enough to say: “You’re so easy, Eddie, fuck. I thought I would have to work for it, but look at you.” He punctuates the words with a sharp thrust that Eddie feels in his fucking _spine_.  
He digs his nails in Richie’s shoulders, half in retribution, half in encouragement. “Smug is—ah, fu _u_ ck, not a good look on you.” Lies. “Just touch me, come on, you said you wanted—”  
“To see you come, yeah,” Richie finishes for him, and for all his teasing he does let go of one of Eddie’s legs to wrap a hand around his dick. He tightens his grip, just enough, and strokes him quick and dirty. 

Pleasure coils fast in Eddie’s stomach, deep inside of him where Richie still spreads him open—burning heat, tension in his muscles, he sinks his fingers in Richie’s hair just to hold onto something. “Yes, yes yes Richie, fuck, just like that, you’re so good,” he keeps blabbering, incoherent, and finally the tension snaps, and he comes in white stripes over Richie’s hand and his own chest. He clenches around Richie’s cock, and he feels more than hears Richie’s answering groan muffled in his neck. 

He suspects from how Richie stilled in his arms that he’s waiting for permission to keep going, or—considering the resigned desperation in his eyes when he looks up—for Eddie to kick him out or something. Jesus, has _that_ ever happened before to him?  
“Go on, big boy,” Eddie says instead, and loosely wraps his limbs around him, “show me what you got.”  
Richie looks incredulous, but then he’s flashing those pointy teeth of his in a bright smile and gathering Eddie closer to his body. He begs for a kiss that Eddie gladly gives, pliant and lazy in his afterglow, and Richie just— _goes to town_ on him. If he thought he was going hard before, _holy shit_ , fuck, Eddie’s going to remember this anytime he tries to sit for the next _week_.  
He’s getting so oversensitive he almost can’t take it, while another part of him asks, hopeful, _is he gonna make me come twice?_ —but alas, he’s nearing his forties, so instead of getting hard again like he wishes, Eddie holds onto Richie’s biceps and listens to his punched-out growls as he chases his orgasm.  
“Go on, Richie, sweetheart,” he whispers in his ear, “come inside me, fill me up.”  
“Fuck, Eds, how are you even fucking _real_?” Richie asks on a moan, and he _does_ come so hard Eddie sees stars in sympathy. 

They’re still trying to regain their breaths, with Eddie clumsily petting Richie’s hair because he kind of, sort of, can’t feel his fucking arms, when Richie slowly slips out of him.  
Eddie grimaces at the feeling. “Sorry, sorry,” Richie says and he doesn’t sound sorry at all, he sounds like he came two minutes ago and is still riding the high. “Lemme just—”  
He paws around the bed looking for something, and when he finds his pair of borrowed boxers he uses them to wipe his own come steadily leaking out of Eddie. 

It would be extremely gross, and in fact it _will_ be extremely gross in a few minutes, but for now Eddie is—completely fucked out. The lights are on but nobody’s home. He doesn’t know if he can move his legs, and truth be told he doesn’t care to try; Richie can carry him to the shower if the need arises. In his strong, big arms. Fuck.

Maybe he blacks out for a while, because next thing he knows Richie has a new pair of boxers on, and he’s cleaning Eddie’s chest with a warm, wet towel. He flings it across the room when he’s done.  
“ _Hey_ ,” Eddie makes the valiant effort of complaining, but it comes out all breathy and still horny, somehow, _wow_ , is he regressing to his teenage self or something?  
“Hey yourself,” Richie says, because he’s an idiot. Eddie opens his eyes and finds him smiling, still red in the face, hair an absolute disaster. His pointy ears peek out the mess of curls. Eddie lets it happen when Richie licks a hot strip over his lips and on his cheek, still way too blissed out to find it annoying.  
He hums happily. “You can stay here.”  
Richie drops on the mattress next to him, and manhandles Eddie until they’re spooning. “Nice, I was hoping we could cuddle.”  
“No, I mean, if you don’t have a place to live, you can stay here.”

Richie’s arm tightens around Eddie’s waist, and he sucks in a sharp breath. “ _Eddie_. Eddie, are you _serious_?”  
“Yeah.”  
“I don’t have any money.”  
“Shit, really?” he says, feigning surprise. “I thought seeing who would take home a starving, shivering dog was the social experiment of a bored shape-shifting millionaire.”  
That’s the kind of comment that should label Eddie as a dickhead for the rest of his life, instead Richie snorts a laugh like he’s genuinely amused. “You’re so blasé about me telling you I’m a werewolf, I’ve never had someone react this way. Is my dick really _that_ bomb?”  
“Yeah, dick so good it changed my entire belief system,” Eddie retorts, only 45% joking. “So? Is that a yes?”

Richie hides his face in Eddie’s neck and hugs him closer to himself. “I wanna say yes,” he admits, strangely vulnerable, “but I don’t know if you’ll change your mind in the morning.”  
“It’s already morning, dumbass.”  
“ _Whatever_ , you know what I mean! I’ve been hurt before, a broken heart can be mended only so many times, yadda yadda—what if you wake up and realize you’ve made a mistake?”  
Eddie twists around in his arms until they’re face to face. “Richie,” he says sweetly, “you’re so fucking stupid.”  
“Wow, please tell me more.”  
“If you haven’t noticed from the way we had sex half an hour after you told me you’ve eaten _rats_ before, I like you. A ridiculous amount. I also have way more money than I know what to do with—and the remnants of my soul that haven’t been sucked away by working a 9-to-5 job most of my life _won’t_ let me leave you without offering. Because I want you here. Please stay here?”

Richie listens to him intently, and then his lower lip starts to tremble.  
Eddie’s eyes go wide. “Oh, no. Hey, come on, please don’t—”  
He starts to cry. “I’m sorry! Fuck, I get emotional after sex, _don’t mind me.”_ He wraps his arms around Eddie, and hugs him closer to his chest tight enough that Eddie has trouble breathing. “I knew it,” Richie is saying, “that you’d be all gooey and nice under the rough, annoying exterior.”  
“I take it back,” Eddie mumbles with his face smushed on his collarbone. “Go live on the streets and get rabies.”  
Richie laughs wetly and leans back so he can kiss Eddie’s forehead, and his nose, and lick again at his lips like the over-enthusiastic puppy that he is. “Fuck you, no take-backs!”  
Eddie gives in the urge to smile, and when Richie’s tongue goes over his lips again, Eddie sucks into his mouth, and they kiss happily for a while. 

“So, what do you want me to do to pay for my stay here?” Richie asks when they separate. The blue of his eyes is still liquidy, but his voice is light and teasing. “Fuck you like that every night?”  
Eddie rolls his eyes, and sighs. “Not every night, you literal horndog.”  
“Most nights?”  
“Most nights.”  
A smirk. Richie makes his teeth grow into longer fangs on purpose, the bastard. “Deal,” he says on a growl, and then they’re kissing again, which is how they spend a good part of that afternoon—and, Eddie dares hope, many more to come. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what possessed me to write 11k words of werewolf Richie smut, but here we are. Please let me know what you thought! I have a tradition of asking for eggplant emojis under my PWPs, so if you'd like to give me sustenance in these trying times, drop me one in the comments ;) 
> 
> I'm @[mere-mortifer](https://mere-mortifer.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, also on my [art blog](https://mere-mortifer-art.tumblr.com/) you can find [a couple of drawings](https://mere-mortifer-art.tumblr.com/post/617583055245328384/the-world-is-a-dark-place-right-now-so-i-wrote) I made for this fic

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [If you could only see the beast you've made of me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26547016) by [friendlystranger1312](https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlystranger1312/pseuds/friendlystranger1312)




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